Sinai

Throw songs in dry sand or fight mount Washington. Image a parrot’s tongue and fingers leaf five at once: that’s at least four lost and there’s no saliva at all the corridor tiles a chair wheels a common nut to the local john one hand over the above since he’s naked. Saliva? On the verge. A sig outside. Where’s the paper? No notes nor lyrics yet they sing omm as I see the inhaled yard to climb the stairs again. Yet there’s a sink in my room, pencils and what’s on the news or draw another face mask on your life dreams which are guessed and where I’ll be long for sure.